


Rozanne

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon returns to find Maedhros on his way and hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rozanne

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s barely shut the door when Maedhros is on him, so swift that Fingon has no time to resist. He knows it’s Maedhros, because none of the healers could overtake him so quickly. He’s thrown against the wood, not hard enough to hurt but enough to force out a gasp, and then he’s turned with one hand for his back to be flattened against it. Maedhros towers over him, if only in height with the rest still too slim. Maedhros slips long fingers into his hair, one thumb against his temple, and bends to kiss him, as harried as the rest. 

Fingon knows from this that he’s been gone from Barad Eithel too long. He still has other duties, but sometimes he wishes Maedhros were his only one. At least now, until Maedhros is fully healed, if he ever will be. He kisses with an almost frightful determination, like he’ll burn his want into Fingon’s lips too hot for Fingon to ever escape from. Fingon already knows that no one could kiss him the way Maedhros does. He surrenders to the ferocity because he can tell that Maedhros _needs_ it, and he wraps his arms tenderly around Maedhros’ neck and shoulders, until Maedhros tires himself out from kissing Fingon so hard. 

At first, it’s just little pauses, stopping in between to _breathe_ , and Fingon lets him, breath just as rushed because Maedhros makes his heart beat quicker. Maedhros still presses back. Finally, he stops all together to hold his forehead to Fingon’s, his auburn bangs uncleanly cut and trapped between. Fingon’s been meaning to groom Maedhros’ hair properly: make him neat and lordly again, the way he once was. But then they always dissolve into _this_ , and Fingon gets little else done.

When Maedhros pulls back enough for Fingon to think, he asks, “How are you?” It’s vague and surface, but important. Maedhros licks his lips in thought and nods. 

“I am well enough.” He sounds a little raspy, but that could be from having Fingon’s tongue inside him. 

Fingon jests, hopefully, “Well enough to leap from bed, at least.” Weakly, Maedhros smiles. He was confined to his pillow, once. Fingon knew he wouldn’t be forever, even when Maedhros himself bitterly proclaimed so. Touching the tips of their noses together, Fingon sighs, “You are becoming yourself again.”

“I will never be the same being I was,” Maedhros counters, before softening and drawing his thumb across Fingon’s cheek. Then his hand skims along Fingon’s arm to intertwine their fingers together, and Fingon’s gently tugged away from the door, following instantly. “But I can live with that if who I am now is still someone you will have.” 

Fingon would tell Maedhros to hush but is busy being guided to the mattress. Maedhros holds him against it, until he lets his knees buckle to perch on the edge, while Maedhros kneels down before him, arrayed on the hard stone. Sometimes it’s strange to see him out of armour, in the loose robes of the healer’s home, but it’s more so like this, when Fingon has the rare chance to look down at him and see the soft curves of his neck and shoulders as the robes slip down them. Maedhros’ long hair falls some over his chest on either side, the rest down his back, the crimson hues made all the sharper in the falling light through the high windows. He’s breathtaking, and for a moment, Fingon only revels in that, in how _lucky_ he is to have this wondrous creature still in his life. Then the worry veiled in Maedhros’ words comes back to him, and it worries him in return. He promises, firm and undeniable, “That should never concern you.”

Another small smile tugs at Maedhros’ lips. His eyes hold sorrow that shouldn’t be in the sanctity of Barad Eithel, and he takes one of Fingon’s hands in his own. He lifts it and bends to kiss it, lingering enough for Fingon’s breath to catch. He always loves the press of Maedhros’ lips on his skin. Maedhros murmurs against it, “You cannot know the depths of my gratitude. For that, for everything.” When he releases Fingon’s hand, it’s only to come forward again, lifting higher on his knees, so that his mouth can reach Fingon’s chin. Fingon ducks for another kiss, but Maedhros is already drifting down, holding his lips to Fingon’s jaw, then to his throat, down to his collarbone. His robes, white and blue and nothing special, Maedhros parts with ease. He untwists the sash from Fingon’s waist, not drawing it open but loose enough to part the rest. He brushes the top of Fingon’s robes all the way to his shoulders, one at a time, and lingers the most at the height of Fingon’s chest. Fingon’s next breath is trembling, Maedhros’ mouth open and warm against him. 

Maedhros has always been talented with his mouth, but this is the side only Fingon knows. Maedhros licks and nips his way down Fingon’s body, taking his time and diverting once to each nipple, plucking on them and suckling once each, bringing them to peak, rosy red, and both times Maedhros shivers, as though pleasuring Fingon is _his_ pleasure. He traces each seam of Fingon’s body with his tongue, each line of muscle and each dimpling of flesh, like Fingon first did with all of Maedhros’ scars. Their bodies are no longer anything secret to one another, but Maedhros traces Fingon now as though worried he’s forgotten. By the time Maedhros is pulling free Fingon’s sash, Fingon is on the verge of a filthy moan. 

He has to cover his mouth when Maedhros laves over one of his thighs. Maedhros burrows right to the end, dug against Fingon’s crotch, then back with his teeth scraping a light line across the surface. Fingon’s thigh becomes streaked with blushes, then the other side, the same revenant, loving treatment that leaves him spreading open wider and pressing forward. Maedhros is so _handsome_ between his legs that he can hardly stand it, and every horrible thing they’ve gone through seems somehow worth it, if only for this moment. 

When Maedhros’ kisses land beneath his naval, Fingon means to tell Maedhros to _stop_ —he doesn’t need to do this. Not for Fingon’s love. Maedhros has become more wary in some areas, at first shy in this, then fiercer in others, but Fingon would’ve loved Maedhros still if Maedhros never wanted his touch again. Maedhros’ long tongue comes out to press hard against his skin, and he only manages a gasped, “ _Maedhros_...”

He’s rising beneath his robes, pressing against Maedhros’ chin. Maedhros looks up at him, softly fond, and murmurs, “I am pleased that you can still grow hard for me, my love.” Fingon nearly scowls despite his pleasure. 

He scolds instead, “You know that.”

Maedhros mutters only, “I know that I look different, marred.” He lowers his face to rub against Fingon’s still-covered shaft, and it steals Fingon’s breath away for a heartbeat. Somehow, as Maedhros carefully pushes the last of Fingon’s robes open, Fingon regains himself enough to speak. 

He brings one hand to Maedhros’ cheek, cups it tenderly with his fingertips threaded back in Maedhros’ hair, and he insists, “You are beautiful. I would love you still if you were not, but you have come back to me no less than before. The Valar themselves could not match the vision you are to me.” Maedhros grins, finally, with it touching his eyes. Too much gratitude shines in them. But he moves before either can say more. 

He takes Fingon’s cock in his hand, the other arm still lying peacefully in his lap. While his fingers clasp Fingon’s reddened skin, his thumb traces the length of one vein, and he gives the hooded tip a light peck. Next he swipes his tongue over it, dragging out a heady gasp from Fingon, then presses into it as though he’ll weasel his way right into the little hole. His licks and kisses become larger and more fervent as he goes, until he’s enveloping the whole head, and then he opens wide and begins to slide down, his hand drifting out of the way. He goes smoothly, easily, a skilled warrior in even this, though Fingon is thick and very long. Maedhros takes Fingon right down his throat, from the soft slide of his tongue to that hollow, his jaw stretched as wide as it can. Finally, Maedhros is at the very base, lips scattered in the dark hair of Fingon’s crotch and his nose flattened against Fingon’s stomach. Fingon is nearly panting—this undoes him far more than battle ever could. The heat, the pressure, the sight of _Maedhros_ swallowing him whole is almost too much to bear. Maedhros lingers for a moment, like savouring the taste, then gives a mighty suck to empty out his cheeks. 

Sometimes this worries Fingon, how quickly Maedhros bends his body to another’s pleasure, because it makes Fingon sick to think of where he may have learned it. Maedhros rarely speaks of what Morgoth did to him, except in the dead of night in Fingon’s arms, and the words of this nature are most seldom of all. But Fingon can’t imagine anyone not wanting Fëanor’s oldest son, and Morgoth had the cruelness and the chance to take what he had no right to. As Fingon watches the lowered, half-hooded depths of Maedhros’ eyes, he thinks of stopping this, of insisting that _Maedhros doesn’t have to_ , but it feels too good and he’s not that strong. He pushes his fingers back into Maedhros’ hair, and the other hand joins it, tracing and lightly massaging the back of Maedhros’ skull. He doesn’t quite hold Maedhros on, just cradles him. He wants Maedhros _so much_. There’s always this war inside him, but he’s _weak_ and succumbs. 

Maedhros takes him in long, lavish thrusts, sliding down to the head before shoving back on. Maedhros spears himself on Fingon’s cock again and again, sucking on each rush and squirming his tongue against Fingon’s underside, his teeth carefully drawn back but occasionally scraping just enough to make Fingon hiss. Maedhros gently cups Fingon’s sac in his hands and fondles Fingon’s balls, tugging here and there to earn more grunts. Fingon becomes a mess of helpless moans. It takes great effort not to thrust forward, hold Maedhros down and hump him, fuck his pretty face with abandon. Maedhros holds nothing back, surrendering his perfect mouth completely to Fingon’s pleasure, until Fingon can’t hold himself back any longer. 

He comes with a ragged cry, his hands too busy in Maedhros’ hair to stifle it. Maedhros fucks himself on Fingon’s cock right through it, milking out everything, even as Fingon bursts one jet after another of seed down his eager throat. He swallows each load without hesitation, and each time it wracks a shiver through Fingon’s entire body. Fingon’s release lasts far longer than it ever does in his own hand. He empties himself completely in Maedhros’ mouth. Even when there’s nothing left, Maedhros stays on, idly suckling and now humming lightly around him. He only pulls off when Fingon’s trembling from having his raw, flagging cock still sucked. 

Maedhros’ mouth hangs open after. His lips are bright and spit-slicked, some of Fingon’s seed painting his teeth and tongue in little places that he licks away. There have been times when he’s deliberately refused to swallow or spit it out, just to have it bubble out around his lips and dribble down his chin, so he could lick at it and savour it later and break Fingon with the sight in the meantime. But now he takes it all, chest rising and falling rapidly with each laboured breath, his cheeks flushed to match his hair and his whole being ripe for Fingon’s taking. 

Fingon looks down at him after that, needing time both to gather himself and to bask in this glow, in Maedhros’ beauty. Even spent and satiated, Fingon finds his love so strong that it nearly burns. He has too much love to hold. If Maedhros were taken again, Fingon would ride after him again, alone, even if the host between them were tenfold and there was no hope. There is _nothing_ he wouldn’t do for this elf. 

Finally, when he can move again, he gives Maedhros’ shoulder a gentle push. Maedhros rears slightly back, and Fingon slips to the floor, surging forward with their knees awkwardly clashing together and Fingon’s robes a pool around him, only attached along his arms. He takes Maedhros’ face in both of his hands, and he leans them close together, so that Maedhros has no choice but to look at him. He hisses, not angry but consumed, “Listen to me, Maedhros. I love you, and you worthy. You _know_ that. You owe me nothing.”

Maedhros, at first, looks like he might laugh. He at least grins, genuine. He acquiesces, quieter, “I never said that it was only gratitude. I will always owe myself to you, but I love you besides. I always have, and I always will.” When he comes forward, it’s slowly, so as not to dislodge Fingon’s hands, and he brings their lips together again. The taste is a little strange, mild but salty, _Maedhros_ under it, and Fingon kisses right back, too pleased for words. One kiss leads to another, until their bodies are flush against one another and their mouths are in constant motion. 

In the middle, Fingon brings his hands down Maedhros’ chest, appreciating the taut feel everywhere he goes, though he’ll want Maedhros to put more weight on, build him to what he used to be. This is fine, too; Fingon will take Maedhros any way he can. He slips his hands under Maedhros’ robes, not bothering to draw them free. Even as he wraps his fingers around Maedhros’ hardened cock, tall and warm, nearly throbbing, Maedhros mutters, “You do not have to do that.”

Fingon wants to laugh for the irony, but instead purrs, “You know me to be fair, and besides, I enjoy it.” There’s nothing he likes more than the touch of Maedhros’ body, and no sight better than Maedhros’ face when he’s pleasured. Watching him come was the first time Fingon knew he could never, ever leave. 

When Maedhros first returned, he was a slow burn, needing coaxing and love, but now he’s growing stronger and canters into Fingon’s hand, his arms slipping around Fingon to hold on tight. He pulses, trembles and nuzzles into Fingon’s neck and shoulder, draped around Fingon like a naked flame, hot and dazzling. Fingon strokes him, wet with only the slickness of sweat and Maedhros’ dripping precum, smeared down the rest in Fingon’s palm. He kisses the side of Maedhros’ face. He runs his tongue along Maedhros’ ear. He nips at the tip and drinks Maedhros’ heady moan, and Maedhros comes undone for him, safe and loved. 

Maedhros grits his teeth when he finishes, turning his roar into a hiss, his cock squelching in Fingon’s hand to spray out between them. Fingon catches what he can and pumps Maedhros all the harder, until Maedhros is clutching him so intensely that it’s painful. He thinks to wipe his hand off on his robes, but instead finds himself pushing Maedhros back and ducking down to lick Maedhros clean. He gathers what he can on his tongue, while Maedhros chuckles warmly above him, “You bring me relief once again.” Fingon’s laugh is lost in the side of Maedhros’ cock. 

After Maedhros is clean, slick with spit instead of seed, Fingon rises again. He doesn’t stop at his knees, but pulls to his feet, reaching down to draw Maedhros up with him. Maedhros stands tall again, heavy in his satisfaction but nonetheless high and lithe. It’s easy for Fingon to turn him and push him down to the bed. Maedhros quickly drags him to follow, and they wind up in a messy heap together, half undressed and moist and reeking of sex. Their legs intertwine, thighs thrust between each other and arms around each other’s bodies. Fingon pets Maedhros’ face with one hand. Their hair lies all interwoven, Fingon’s with one more golden ribbon than usual, for he’d meant to braid it in Maedhros’ hair. The light’s now failing, Maedhros bathed in blue-dark tones, and that may have to wait for tomorrow. 

Maedhros is the one to note, quiet like a naughty elfling, “We should not be found this way.”

“Apparently it is fact that your life belongs to me, and no one could begrudge me lying with what is mine,” Fingon muses. He’s glad when Maedhros shows only mirth at it, coming closer to nose against Fingon. They nuzzle together to face the night, falling to sleep one at a time with waking dreams about them.


End file.
